


Meridian

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [13]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:50:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel remembers some geography. Celeborn talks to an old woman who doesn't have many nice things to say. Glorfindel kills a Vala and shows what coolness really means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meridian

The fields were a rich summer yellow. Elrond inhaled the clean aroma of marigolds. 

“The rock will be a three-fourth out of the water now,” Erestor said quietly.

The rock. Elrond turned to watch his companion. The rock where Elrond would sit while Erestor swam at nights in the Bruinen.

“Ossë speaks of summerstorms in Arda,” Círdan remarked. 

Elrond hated Círdan. Perhaps it had come of listening to Maglor’s less than flattering remarks about the mariner. Maglor had nursed an unspoken grievance against Círdan and Elrond had often wondered why. Then Elrond had seen Círdan in the company of Maglor’s brother and had immediately discerned the reason. 

“Would it be caused by an imbalance created by the destruction of the Rings?” Erestor enquired thoughtfully, his dark eyes flicking to Elrond’s ring finger where Vilya had once rested.

“Perhaps,” Círdan admitted. 

“It has more to do with the shifting of landmasses, both Aman and Arda, and the slow change of Eru’s symphony,” Mithrandir opined.

“A symphony remains a symphony,” Glorfindel said firmly. “Our priorities change, but the chords played in our hearts remain the same.”

“What does one of my kindred know of love?” Mithrandir said in a self-deprecating tone, his twinkling eyes shining in good humour. “It is not in us to love, perhaps excepting her,” here he nodded at Melian who was immersed in a discussion with Thranduil. 

Elrond saw Erestor’s knuckles turn white on the reins. But before he could express his concern, Glorfindel offered a curt answer to Mithrandir’s lightly meant query.

“I was once fortunate to know one of your kindred who knew love.”

“Unsurprising. Half the world loves you, my dear friend,” Mithrandir said with a wry chuckle. 

Glorfindel’s eyes shot wide and Elrond realised then for the first time that the azure depths were flecked by soft green. 

“Glorfindel?” Mithrandir asked concernedly. “Laurefindë?”

“Pray, never call me so!” Glorfindel managed to rasp before riding forth alone.

“What happened?” Mithrandir asked quietly breaking the silence that ensued. 

“When he returned from Aman,” Círdan said in a hesitant tone, “I once asked him why they had denied him eternal rest. I received no answers. I asked Galadriel, for I was very curious and those were unusual circumstances.”

“What did she say?” Elrond asked despite his natural dislike for Círdan.

“That Glorfindel had been brave enough to refuse the dictate of Manwë.” Círdan paused and exhaled. “He was asked to forswear the fallen man he loved yet.”

“No less tragic than the star crossed fates of the Finwëans,” Mithrandir said. “Why-”

“Yes,” Círdan hurried on, unwilling to breach more of what had been a private conversation. “I asked her. She is fond of speaking the old tongue and I have never seen her resorting to the Sindarin names when conversing with those had come from beyond the sea. But she did always address Glorfindel in the Sindarin manner. Her answer was that the name was the only balm that Glorfindel’s fallen lover had left. She said she would not take that away from the poor man.”

“Who was the man?” Mithrandir asked. “A Maia? One of Ulmo’s vassals, perhaps?”

Círdan did not reply. Elrond noticed that Erestor had paled. He would ask later.

“It is inconceivable that you would not know,” Mithrandir pressed.

“Merely speculation. I have seen enough in life to not succumb to suspicions based on little proof.” 

Círdan’s eyes had turned pensive and Elrond wondered why. 

“Certainly Círdan can rule Mithlond without your express counsel?” Maglor had complained querulously one night when his brother had been perusing a letter from the mariner. 

Maedhros had cast a wry look at his brother before saying, “He was Grandfather’s friend, Macalaurë.”

 

Finwë’s friend. Elrond frowned again. Círdan had always been the quiet succour for their house. 

“Grey skies to the north,” Erestor was saying. “Rains again?”

Elrond inhaled sharply. Grey had been the eyes of Maedhros Fëanorion, a remarkable grey that none had inherited in the later generations. Celebrimbor had once remarked during a state dinner that his uncle’s grey eyes were the disturbing legacy of the only woman Finwë had loved. 

“Elrond?” Erestor asked worriedly.

“It is ironic how some die for gold while others live for silver.”

Círdan’s gaze lingered on the grey skies and he said softly, “If Menelwen marries him, her lot will be as her mother’s. His heart did not succumb to the will of the Gods. Will it surrender to the will of a woman?”

 

“Man the walls!”

Finwë and Maedhros had designed the city as a stronghold. The outer circle of the city held the smithies, the stables, the houses and the barracks. The inner circle held the barns, the granaries, the forge, the royal stables and the large palatial mansion which had been designed to serve as a fortress. Two tiers of walls formed a half-perimeter to the city and ran into the solid mountain fastness of the Pelori ranges. 

 

“It is a deathtrap,” Fingon had murmured when he saw the plans for the city. “You are lost if the walls are lost.”

“The walls are high and impenetrable,” Maedhros had replied. “If the leader is weak enough to lose the walls, then this is as good a locale to surrender as any other.”

“Your father is not a warrior, Maitimo,” Fingon had said harshly. 

“True,” Maedhros had murmured in a pensive tone.

 

They called Maglor his father’s son. He knew to wage war when another led him. But did he know to lead?

“Milord!” Veryo came to him.

Maglor looked over the vast plains that Formenos abutted upon. Those had been grasslands and hunting ground when he had lived here with his family. 

“The climate has changed. The tides rise each season. Sea conquers land, they say. Taniquetil’s peak has fallen below the peak of Hyarmentir. Snowcaps melt in the north.” Veryo paused. “Grasslands have become deserts. The world is changing, Prince.”

“I cannot lead,” Maglor said quietly, meeting Veryo’s alarmed gaze with a calmness he found hard to affect. “I live yet in my brother’s shadow.”

 

“Veryalcar,” Celebrimbor had addressed the grieving man tentatively. “You cannot fade. Your mother needs you.”

“You understand nothing!” Veryo had shouted then. “Nobody understands anything. I lost him! I lost him!”

Celebrimbor had hesitated for a fraction of an instant before saying, “Ride to Himring with my signet ring. He will help you.”

Veryo leapt at the chance to undertake that perilous journey. He would die and be united with the man he had lost. He had not thought that fate would continue its cruel game and see him safely through enemy lines despite his best efforts to die. 

“What brings you to me, citizen of fair Nargothrond?” Maedhros had asked.

Himring was a thriving battlecamp as leaders of the Edain and of the Eldar convened to orchestrate the grand union of Maedhros. It had taken many days of waiting before Veryo could gain an audience with the Lord.

“Your nephew seems to think that I should come to you,” Veryo had said apathetically. 

Grey eyes turned distant in contemplation and Veryo began taking in the enigma that was Maedhros Fëanorion. Gaunt frame with robes hanging loosely about the near-emaciated body, hair as crimson as the sunset over the peaks of Echoriath, and eyes that legends said were inherited from the Broideress herself. 

“Well, am I as rumours make me out to be?” Maedhros asked then. 

Those eyes turned silver when they sparkled in amusement, Veryo noticed. And a quirk of thin lips accompanied that. 

“The name becomes you,” Veryo said plainly. Grace and strength ran as steel beneath the exhaustion and disfigurement. 

“I stand flattered,” the Prince remarked. “Edrahil was a brave man. My condolences.”

Veryo nodded. He wondered how the Prince had known that he was Edrahil’s mourning brother. Perhaps the rumours about the Prince’s dangerous perception were true. It made Veryo uncomfortable.

“Edrahil was also a very noble man.” The Prince stepped closer so that Veryo was captivated by the intensity of those eyes. As he stood benumbed, the Prince continued, “To lose your lover is to lose your heart.”

“My lord!” Veryo had shouted in horror. “There was nothing-”

A quirk of the lips again and the Prince had said, “My ears remain perfectly functional, Veryo. There is no need to shout. You might bring my brothers in. They are very self-willed and over-protective. Not unlike how Edrahil was.”

Veryo had wanted to strangle the life out of the Prince then. He let his bitterness vent forth and goaded saying, “The rumours are true then! You buy alliances with your body! Even the alliances of your brothers and cousins!”

“My admittedly frail constitution would desert me utterly if I were to indulge in polyandrous incest,” the Prince said dryly. “While it is heartening to see that your grief has not dulled your spirit, I must take my leave. Alliances are hard to forge when one does not take the path you suggested.”

“I apologise, milord,” Veryo breathed. “I did not mean what I said. I will take any punishment you deem fit for my callous, uncalled for words.”

“Words bruise no man.”

“What must I do?” Veryo clasped his hands and stared imploringly at those pitying grey eyes. “What must I do? I loved my brother.”

“Love is resigning oneself to live in another’s shadow.”

 

“Veryo?” Maglor asked. “The archers can be stationed here, I take it?”

“You said that you live yet in your brother’s shadow,” Veryo said quietly.

“Yes, yes.” Maglor smiled, an occurrence frightfully rare. “I believe he called it my tendency to soliloquise. I have an unfortunate tendency of making demoralising statements at the most inopportune of times. No, you need not worry on that account. I will not lapse into that when I am fighting an enemy.”

Veryo chalked up a little smile and nodded. But Maglor’s eyes narrowed and he asked the question Veryo had no wish to answer.

“You knew my brother?”

“I lived in my brother’s shadow. The Prince helped me come to terms with that.”

Maglor blanched and took an unconscious step backwards, his eyes wide and flashing with emotions unfathomable. 

“And?” he asked softly.

“I swore to the Prince that I would aid you when you needed succour the most,” Veryo whispered. “I am proud to avow allegiance to you, milord.”

Maglor nodded and said quietly, “Command the other flank.”

After Veryo had bowed and taken his leave, Maglor cast his eyes down to the plain circlet of gold on his left hand.

 

“The men are disheartened,” Carnilótë told Nerdanel. “Arafinwë must speak with them.”

“Arafinwë is no orator,” Nerdanel remarked. 

“Then you must speak with them!” Carnilótë said firmly. “We cannot afford another rout.”

“When did this become your concern?” Nerdanel asked. “Women are as statues when war rages in the land.”

“It was not so in Beleriand,” Carnilótë said crisply. “We mustered the weak to safety and supervised rations. We helped where we could. There is more to war than weapons.”

Nerdanel did not reply. Carnilótë left her and walked to where Finarfin stood with the commanders. 

“Yes, my dear?” he asked when he saw her. 

“When the siege lengthens, the odds of our victory decrease,” she said quietly. “We cannot prolong the situation. Strike out, Arafinwë.”

“We are decimated,” Hórëon said curtly. “We cannot achieve anything by recklessness.” 

“Have you ever been reckless in war, Hórëon?” she demanded.

“No, why would-”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “Then what would you know of recklessness? I have seen reckless men, and I have seen them win.”

“What do you want us to do?” Finarfin asked with a frown. “The men are disheartened. The commanders lack morale. Another rout and if Tulkas proves to be less toying with us than he was the last time, Tirion shall be lost. We have never lost Tirion.”

“What if they torch the city?” she asked and she was not surprised to see some of the commanders paling. “Eregion was torched. Nargothrond was torched. Númenor sank. Beleriand was destroyed. If the Gods will a land gone, then it will be gone regardless of our actions or inactions.”

Silence.

“If you will fall bravely, lore shall remember you as men who undaunted. If you will surrender as mice in a bolthole and wait for the pity of outside eyes, then lore shall call your cowards and rightly so.” She paused and saw with satisfaction that two of the commanders were glaring at her. “But I am a woman and what knowledge has a woman of war?”

“Women of Beleriand know more of war than the men of Valinor,” said one of the oldest commanders who had crossed the sea with Finwë on the long journey west led by Oromë himself.

“What do you imply, Lindórëon?” Finarfin demanded of him.

“Let us lead out a sally,” the man said. “When Finwë led us west, we would often send advance sallies to flush the Enemy from narrow passes before the caravans of women and children came through.”

 

“Forgotten lands?” Galadriel had asked her cousin. “What bearing does that have on choosing the stronghold of your father?”

Maedhros had traced a finger along the map from the lonely dot signifying Tol Eressëa to the dark shaded portion that lay beyond the southern outreaches of the Pelori.

“A prime meridian, if you will,” he had said slowly.

 

She had not understood then. But now, as she stood before the charred remains of her mother’s pyre, she finally realised what her cousin had meant. To the south of the Pelori stood high the mountain of Hyarmentir that looked over the western lands blessed by Yavanna. Morgoth and Ungoliant had come with the Unlight from the slopes of the mighty Hyarmentir. 

Hyarmentir and Tol Eressëa lay on a straight line. And in the middle of the long line that joined them on the map had been a spot where Maedhros’s finger had hovered. Formenos. 

 

“All lines form circles,” Maedhros had said, “for Eru’s symphony was ever circular in nature. That which is, already has been; that which is to be, already has been.”

He had unfolded the map to its full spread then and she had drawn in a sharp breath as she saw the lands of the East mirroring those beyond the Sea. 

“The Valar may draw lands away from the sight of lesser kindred,” Maedhros said quietly. “But even they cannot undo the circles that form the world. Creation is branded by circles of the flame imperishable.” 

 

She closed her eyes and recalled the map. The line running from Hyarmentir to Tol Eressëa overlapped the line running from Thangorodrim and disappearing into the darkness of the sea’s bowels. 

“Meridian,” she spoke aloud in the quiet funereal silence.

“Altáriel?” Celeborn asked worriedly. 

He had been keeping a close watch on her following the funeral rites. She had spoken little after lighting her mother’s pyre and watching flames devour the daughter of Olwë. Those in Alqualondë were grieving, but did not seem shocked. 

An old woman had told Celeborn, “We knew something would happen, milord. The Princess has ever augured endings and death. Little wonder why they call her-” she shook her head and halted. “I speak with a loose tongue, forgive me.”

“What do they call her?” Celeborn had asked her with an urgency that he desperately sought to conceal.

“They call her the herald of dusk.”

* * *

“I would rather that you remained behind in the city,” Nerdanel said quietly as she joined Finarfin. 

“You think that a sally is not a wise choice,” he replied. “At this point, we hardly have choices, Nerdanel. And we have little time for words. As your daughter-in-law said, we cannot tarry. Each moment’s delay brings down our odds, if odds existed.”

“You can barely defend. How do you think you can lead a sally?” Nerdanel asked sharply. 

He sighed and wiped his brow before saying, “Formenos worries you.”

“I fear,” she admitted softly.

“So do I. But you and I must give our all to buy him time, Nerdanel.” 

“What if he fails, Arafinwë?” she whispered. “What if he fails?”

“We are marionettes in another’s plan, my dear,” he said gently. “We need only do what we can. Your son knew what we were capable of.”

“I believed in him once when he said that he would see his father saved,” Nerdanel murmured. “He failed.”

The sharp clarion calls of the heralds broke the pall of silence between two who had always been confidants. 

“I have been a coward all my life. For my daughter, I will lay down my cowardice,” he said quietly.

“Eärwen of Alqualondë is dead!” shouted the messenger who rushed to the court square of Tirion. 

Finarfin blanched. He had loved her. He had never understood her. Their marriage had been for furthering his political ambitions. But he had loved her. 

“It begins,” whispered Nerdanel. “We who loved them must now weep and fade with the dusk.”

 

“Manwë.”

Súlimo turned to face his friend of old. 

“Ulmo. Have you rethought your allegiances? Melyanna makes for Tirion even as we speak.”

They stood together on the ramparts of the castle upon Taniquetil and watched the winds chase the wispy clouds beyond the summer rainbow’s end.

“The sea shifts,” Ulmo said quietly. 

“Why does the sea shift?” Manwë asked in an absent tone, his gaze upon the banners of the Valar that had been spun by the woman he loved.

“It is the way of things,” Ulmo replied. “But this shift is on a larger scale than any I have ever seen before.”

Manwë broke off his musings and then met Ulmo’s troubled gaze before asking, “What do you suspect?”

Ulmo did not reply. But he withdrew a scroll from his tunic and handed it to his companion. Manwë unfolded it and his eyes widened as he saw the map. 

“Blasphemer he was,” Ulmo said quietly.

“Yet he has dealt us another blow,” Manwë finished the sentence. 

“It is the vaguest of strokes on a vast canvas,” Ulmo said. “It may not have the least bearing on what concerns you now.”

“Concerns me?” Manwë asked.

“My neutrality remains unshaken,” Ulmo replied calmly. “I told you this because it is my sworn duty to watch the seas.”

“If I lay down the government of Arda and implore Eru,” Manwë trailed off.

“Nelyafinwë had foreseen Númenorë’s fall,” Ulmo interjected. “He was not a fool, Manwë. He was mad, he sold himself and his religious convictions left much to be desired. But he was not a fool.”

 

Finarfin led out the sally. The blue and white banners of the house of Finwë unfurled defiance as he spurred his horse forth and charged. The host of Valmar lay stretched before him as a sea.

He turned to face his warriors and shouted, “Cast out your fear! Will you be cowards, O Noldor?”

The sea of soldiers of their opponent surged forth, led by the mighty Tulkas himself. Finarfin faltered. Then he remembered a single line written on harsh yellowing parchment.

 

“Cowards deserve nothing.”

 

“To me!” he mustered his men. “For our women, for our dead and for those who live yet.” 

 

Carnilótë stood on the fortifications and watched the streams of white and blue mingling with the green and yellow. Then came red. Red coloured the brown earth and red fell upon the white daisies that covered the plains. 

“Rout again,” Nerdanel said. “Will you watch the death of a King?”

 

“It shall be rout! We are hemmed in by the enemy!”the commanders had cried.

Maglor had cursed and ordered her crisply to ask the women to commit mass-suicide if it turned out to be a rout. Then had come the clarion call from the east. And came the men who served the brother Maglor had avoided for years. 

 

“Riders from the east!” Carnilótë gasped.

She wondered if she was seeing things. Then she saw the familiar features of Glorfindel and Círdan. The setting sun silhouetted the riders and she wound her arm about the thin pillar that she was leaning against. Her gaze frantically took in the familiar forms of Melian and Celebrían. 

“She has not come,” Nerdanel said quietly. 

“She will save your son,” Carnilótë said with a shaking voice as she realised Nerdanel had spoken the truth. Galadriel had not come.

“At what cost?” Nerdanel demanded. 

“You failed to understand your son. You fail to understand her.” Carnilótë met Nerdanel’s startled brown gaze squarely.

“What mean you, woman?”

“I understood him,” Carnilótë murmured. “I understand Artanis. They have never feared to act. They did not wait for wisdom or counsel. They did not wait for understanding. They did not fear hatred. He was called a catamite and she was called the witch. You say that a sally was the worst plan. Would you be burned at the stake or make your own pyre? There is hardly any difference, I grant. But there is a difference. It is a question of free will. Artanis shall save Macalaurë because she wills it. His brother saved him because he willed it. Where will drives man, does cost matter?”

 

Melian and Celebrían made for the side gate while the rest rode forth to join the fray. Elrond cast one last worried look at Celebrían to ensure that she was out of harm’s way before following Thranduil into the mêlée. Of their own accord, his eyes moved over Glorfindel who battled his opponents with that familiar sneer firmly in place. 

“I have never seen him so affected!” Thranduil called out as he ducked an opponent’s broadsword.

“You should have left with Celebrían!” Elrond called back. “I refuse all responsibility if you risk your convalescence with these exertions!”

“Exertions?” Thranduil demanded, his eyes dark with the bloodlust of war. 

Elrond cast his eyes towards Erestor who was fighting alongside Mithrandir and Círdan. Someone had to keep an eye on Thranduil. And Erestor. Elrond had seen and lived through too many reckless exploits of theirs. 

“Círdan will keep an eye on him,” Gildor muttered as he swept past Elrond to guard Thranduil’s back. 

Relieved, Elrond rode forth to join Glorfindel whose recklessness outstripped anything Elrond had ever seen him exhibit. The familiar thrust and parry of steel and flesh soon washed his senses to narrow focus. The smell of blood and entrails brought vultures circling overhead.

“Well-met, Arafinwë!” Glorfindel called out as they reached the beleaguered Noldorin host.

Finarfin’s eyes widened and he sagged in relief whispering, “Laurefindë!” Those eyes then came to rest on Elrond for an uncomfortable instant before flicking away to watch the advance of Tulkas.

“Stand aside!” Glorfindel shouted. “Stand aside!”

The men were only too keen to obey him and Glorfindel stood before Tulkas. Elrond clenched his jaw, fighting back the rush of childhood lore lessons where Tulkas had ended up as Elros’s hero. 

 

“My Tulkas can defeat your Nienna!” Elros had declared one day.

 

Nienna was dead.

Tulkas bore down upon Glorfindel, mighty sickle set to swing and Elrond cried out a warning and fought his way across in earnest. But he was late and Glorfindel was unhorsed. He watched in horror as Glorfindel somersaulted neatly before gripping his sword with both hands and charging ahead with a cursed name on the sneering lips.

“Mairon!”

Tulkas did not falter at the name or at the reckless charge. His mighty roar as he matched sabre to sword nearly deafened Elrond. Then came a crushing silence followed by Erestor’s warcry and the equally vociferous curse by Thranduil. Elrond pushed his horse through the ranks of petrified men and reached where Glorfindel lay panting and unarmed. Elrond dropped to his feet and dragged his friend to him out of the Vala’s path.

“We once spared you because you were dear to Nienna,” Tulkas said darkly. “If we match blade, I will not be as forgiving.”

Glorfindel spat and made to rise. Elrond willed all his strength into the grip he had on his friend. Mithrandir’s staff blazed sorcery and Tulkas’s steed reared back.

“Spare us nothing!” Erestor declared, his dark eyes glittering in wrath. “Match greater weapons to greater hearts and we shall see what wins!”

“With the blood that runs in your veins, I am little surprised that you would say that!” Tulkas said harshly. 

Glorfindel broke free of Elrond’s hold, grabbed his fallen sword and charged to meet Tulkas again. Elrond followed him, sword held to strike. The first mighty swing of the sickle Glorfindel parried bravely with his sword and leapt out of the charge. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. And on the fifth, Tulkas swung high and sharp through the summer air before bearing it down upon Glorfindel’s sword. Glorfindel’s sense of balance slipped as he swerved to avoid the blow. Elrond stepped forth to meet the sickle with his sword and was sent reeling backwards by the impact. 

Gildor steadied him and leapt nimbly over the corpses to aid Thranduil who had joined the fight with Tulkas. Gildor had fought Maiar and werewolves. He knew to wage war on plains, deserts and at seas. Elrond hollered a battle cry and fell in rhythm with Gildor’s clean movements and together they beat back Tulkas to where Thranduil and Erestor were until the Vala was encircled by them. 

“Now!” Elrond cried out.

Gildor raised his sword and then felt it slip out of his fingers as his senses were overtaken by an invisible force.

 

“A bastard by incest!” Círdan was exclaiming as he listened to Maedhros. “A bastard by incest?”

“Finduilas loved Inglor,” had said the other man then. “We are yet to discover how to rein in unruly hearts, my dear Círdan. If we did discover the antidote, you and I would be Gods.”

 

The dull crush of his armour into the breastbone and the acrid taste of blood in his mouth told him that all was over. He fell to his knees and stared at Tulkas’s boots while voices rang out all about him in discord. 

 

“I could not save my brother. I cannot save myself.” The beautiful woman had then paused. “But I will save our child born of taint.”

 

“Gildor!” 

Thranduil’s frantic cry and the clang of swords above did nothing to rouse Gildor from his dull contemplation of the blurring ground. He heard Thranduil’s voice swearing, and swearing again, each curse punctuated by the swing of steel. He heard Tulkas’s cry and Erestor’s sword slicing through the air. 

A heavy weight blanketed his consciousness snuffing out the last thread of life he held and his fingernails clawed the air. As a marionette distended from strings, he fell forward and the last thing he knew was his lips tasting the blood-drenched soil.

 

Thranduil shouted and tried to go to Gildor’s side. But Tulkas was as a storm of righteous fury, his bloodshot eyes promising doom as his scimitar sang through the air. Thranduil heard Erestor’s shout of warning and out of the corner of the eye, he could see Elrond leaping into the air, sword outstretched to parry Tulkas’s blow. 

The sabre disappeared into his hair, and then he screamed as skin yielded to steel. His eyes burned and a half-strangled groan escaped his dry lips as the curved blade sawed against his skull.

“Elbereth!” 

He felt a warm body collapsing against him and Elrond’s foul curse. He threw off his metal gloves and brought shaking fingers to his head. Wincing as nails sunk painfully into the raw flesh, he gingerly fed the fingers into the wound.

“My skull is thick,” he rasped.

“I did always suspect it,” Elrond groaned as he pushed himself off Thranduil. 

Thranduil wondered if his eyes were not open. He widened them consciously and peered. Light spots danced before him and he frowned. 

“Thranduil!” Elrond’s voice was affected more than Thranduil had ever heard it in life and Thranduil had been with Elrond in times thick and thin.

“What is it?” he asked, turning his head towards Elrond’s voice. He raised his fingers to rub his eyes.

“Don’t!” 

Elrond had never presumed to command him. Thranduil opened his mouth to demand an explanation. Then he felt liquid pooling in the pits of exhaustion about his eyes.

 

“I understand that I need to wield a sword,” Thranduil had complained querulously. “But Ada, whyever would I need to learn that blindfolded?”

Oropher’s green eyes had darkened and the King had replied, “A warrior should never be over-dependant on one of his senses, my son.”

 

“Ernil nîn,” Elrond was saying. “Please let me-”

“We have a war to fight,” Thranduil said coldly. “I can manage.”

“You must be taken to Tirion!” Elrond said tersely. 

“I will fight,” Thranduil swore. “My father would have fought. I will fight.”

Elrond said morosely, “There can be but one outcome to this war whether you fight or not.”

“I happen to trust Galadriel,” Thranduil retorted. 

He rose to his feet and tested his reflexes cautiously. A cacophony of voices ravaged his mind. He offered his hand to Elrond, who muttered something unkind and worried before tearing a strip off his tunic and winding it over his friend’s head.

“Numbskull,” Elrond said half-heartedly.

“I do believe that my skull feels numb,” Thranduil said. 

He fiercely dabbed off the unpleasant mixture of blood and tears from his cheeks. His eyes burned. Perhaps he should pluck them out and cast them away. They would serve him nothing at all. Then he heard Elrond’s hitched breathing as the latter knelt by Gildor’s body. He realised that he had been fortunate after all.

He let his fingers touch the green stone that Galadriel had given him as a betrothal gift before the Last Alliance. Anoriel. 

And Gildor.

“I am spared the sight, Ada,” he whispered to the blood-scented wind. “I could not have borne to see it a second time.”

 

“Higher!” Glorfindel called out to Erestor. “Up and fall away, Erestor! I will take him!”

Erestor did not reply. He cast his eyes to the cloudy skies and muttered the prayer Círdan had painstakingly taught him in his youth. A prayer to Elbereth Star-Kindler. Despite long years of cohabitation and intimacy with blasphemers, Erestor believed in Varda. He had been an orphan with nothing to cling to. Only the stars and the one who made the stars had remained the constant through years. So he believed. 

“Elbereth!” he called out again before bringing his sword to Tulkas’s steed and he felt his heart leap in triumph as the point he struck proved his speculation of the armour’s blind spot right. The mighty horse reared once, and twice, before crumbling to its knees before him.

Glorfindel’s sneer widened as he saw the advantage. Tulkas had already leapt out of the saddle and was as mighty on foot as he had been ahorse. But it was an advantage and an advantage he did not intend to waste.

Erestor kicked his horse and as it reared into a half-arc, he brought the fetlocks upon Tulkas who was striving to bring down Glorfindel. Attacking without warning was a coward’s way. But Erestor paid no heed to the unspoken rules of war and swooped down in his saddle until his sword sliced through the links of Tulkas’s armour. 

 

"It is lighter than Gil's sword, and Elrond's," Erestor had said critically when Celebrimbor presented him with a new sword.

"Swords I make cannot be matched even by the craftsmen who work the forges of Valinor, my dear Erestor," Celebrimbor had said simply, his eyes shining with conviction rather than boastfulness.

 

“Celebrimbor!” he shouted, for his kinsman’s sword had proved mightier than the work of Aulë’s forge.

Tulkas roared and swung a killing blow at Glorfindel, who was pulled out of the way by a frantic Elrond. Elrond met the blow with his sword. Erestor breathed in relief. Elrond’s technique was outré and unconventional, for he had been taught the sword by Maedhros Fëanorion. Tulkas yielded ground, not greatly, but each foot gained was dearly gained. Erestor washed his hands of rules and conscience before taking up the attack again. Together they danced, Elrond and Erestor, their hearts stuttering on precipices as they tried to keep an eye on each other while beating back their opponent and ensuring that they did not lose ground to Tulkas’s mad sabre. 

“Stand aside!” Mithrandir shouted. “Stand aside, Elrond!”

Elrond saw the beam of sorcery bursting forth towards them from Mithrandir’s staff and he leapt away from the path. Tulkas shouted and called for Manwë, and for Eru as he battled Mithrandir’s spell.

Having already flung the rules of war to the winds, Erestor did not feel the least twinge of compunction on hurling his sword through the air and he whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to Varda as the death visited the battlefield again. Ironic, he thought darkly, how he worshipped a deity they had come to slaughter.

“Tulkas has fallen!” Glorfindel shouted. “Tulkas has fallen! Victory is ours!”

“Not unless we destroy the rest of his army or drive them to surrender,” Thranduil cut in. 

He was already ahorsed, his green eyes bloodshot but sparkling as ever. Elrond felt his chest constrict as he saw the effortless ease with which Thranduil managed the reins of his mount and met Glorfindel in the eye calmly.

“Bring them to surrender!” Erestor called out. “Disarm them, wound them, but kill them only if you have no choice! Let the heralds announce our terms!”

Thranduil rode forth until he was level with Erestor. 

“For a forsaken moment, I thought the blow proved to be your undoing,” he heard Erestor’s shaken voice.

He inhaled deeply of his friend’s familiar scent and said confidently, “It takes more than a sabre’s blow to bring down Thranduil Oropherion, my dearest Erestor.”

“Gildor-” Erestor began softly. “He went still in the middle of the fight. As if-” he shook his head, “as if there were voices in his head.”

“If this war ends, if you survive and if I survive, then I will mourn him and you may speak his name in my presence again.” Thranduil wiped off the blood from his sword blade and brought his hand to his flared nostrils. “Now is not the time to mourn. Now we avenge him.”

 

Celeborn watched the lonely equestrian ride away to the west. Calming his thumping heart was a futile endeavour and he did not even dare try.

"Why did you let her go alone?" one of the Telerin soldiers asked.

"Did I have a choice?" Celeborn replied with rancour. "She is a marionette in a dead man's cabal while I am a marionette in hers."

He closed his eyes, willed himself into composure and turned to face the army he led. 

"To Tirion!" 

Marionette he was, but that he would be gratefully and willingly for the sake of the woman who was both doom and deliverance to him.

* * *

Notes:  
Vitreous Haemorrhage- retinal tear, blood seeps into the eye caused by injury and bleeding in the brain - results in blindness.

Notes:  
Edrahil - Finrod’s companion on the quest to aid Beren.  
Meridian - An imaginary circle on the spherical surface passing through its north and south poles.


End file.
